1635 The Papal Stakes (64 page)

“So be at ease, Thomas. My return will be much more swift than my journey to Palma, so I think you should see me again in five days, a week at most.”

“At which point we will come looking for you, Estuban.”

“At which point you will visit this man in Manacor,” Estuban extended a written note to Thomas North. “He is a family friend—but his association with us is not known outside of a very small circle of us
xuetas
. If anything happens to me, he will already know what happened, where, and when.”

“How?”

“Because this is an old island, with old communities, and ties that were ancient before the Spanish ever set foot here. There are people who will know to watch over me once I step into their shops. They will pass word by channels swift, subtle, and still utterly unsuspected by the Spanish. They will be powerless to help me, but they will know everything that befalls me. Now, I must go if I am to be in Son Frai Gari by dawn.” He turned to Lefferts. “Harry, in my absence, yours is the definitive word of the USE. You are in official charge, but—as I have done—you must allow Colonels North and O’Neill to command the operations you order or authorize.”

“Yeah, sure. You just get your ass back here in one piece, Estuban—and hurry up doing so, okay?”

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The soft, constant whirr and creak of the windmills lining the shores east of Palma had a soothing sound when mixed with a brisk wind, such as was blowing outside now. The cries of the gulls—distant grace notes, not raucous intrusions—added just enough variety to make it seem like a composition of God’s own design, a subtle symphony to enjoy as Miguel Tarongi waited for—

“Hello, Miguel.”

Miguel kept himself from starting as a figure brushed past him, evidently emerging from the supposedly secure rear rooms of the tavern. The figure drew out a chair at Tarongi’s table—already laden with red wine, olives, salt sardines, and bread—and turned to face him.

Miguel nodded. “And hello to you, Estuban Miro.” For, against all probabilities, it was he: the best-aspected son of the
xuetas
who had, for years, been their conduit to, and watchful eyes amidst, the commercial world beyond Palma. And who had seemingly fallen off the face of the Earth—and probably into the maw of Hell and perdition—almost two years earlier. “Nice to see you again,” Miguel added with a laconic drawl.

Miro smiled at the understated tone. “Yes, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“I suspect your mother thinks so,” Miguel added a bit more pointedly.

Miro sighed. “Yes, I expect she does. Before I forget, Miguel, please give this to my family. But by indirect channels, you understand.”

Miguel crossed his arms instead of accepting the sizeable parcel of letters. “You’ll give them yourself—when you see your family.”

Miro’s eyes closed and Miguel had to work to maintain his gruff exterior; he knew the look of necessary, self-inflicted pain well enough. Living under the Spanish, no
xueta
remained a stranger to expressions as tortured as that one for very long.

“I can’t deliver the letters myself, Miguel, because I won’t be seeing my family. And you won’t tell them I’ve been here until after I’m gone.”

“This is nonsense, Estuban. You family deserves—”

“They deserve to survive, Miguel, which they won’t if I have any contact with them while I am here. It would be the start of a new round of
auto da fe
’s. Trust me: I know.”

Miguel sighed but took the letters. He also knew that tone: the voice of a man embarked upon a desperate course from which he could not deviate. Miguel looked around. After he determined they were alone except for the tavern-owner, who was, after all, one of them, he shifted into Hebrew. “So where have you been…Ezekiel?”

“Didn’t you get any of my letters…Meir?”

“Not a one. Where did you post them, and when?”

“From Genoa, back in the spring of 1634, just before I went over the Alps and to Grantville.”

Meir’s eyebrows raised. “The Algerines were cruising the waters between the Balearics and Sardinia like schools of sharks, back then. Did you send it on a Spanish boat?”

“Genoese. I couldn’t risk Spanish channels—for your sakes, here.”

Meir nodded. “Which is probably why your letters never arrived; the number of Genoese ships that were lost to pirate-paid mutinies was very high. That only stopped recently.”

“Because the Spanish antipiracy patrols have trebled?”

Meir nodded. “Yes. The African pirates are finding the waters a lot less profitable, and a lot more dangerous, now.” He wondered at the small, satisfied smile on Ezekiel Miro’s face. He would have liked to find out what it meant, but there were so many larger questions to be answered. “Grantville, eh? Have you met Nasi? Is the place as safe as they say?”

“It exceeds description, Meir. If there was any way to do it, I would encourage all the
xuetas
to relocate there, en masse. Or even to Venice.”

“Why Venice?”

“Because the up-timer interests are very strong there. And where the Grantvillers set up permanent trading stations, they seem to insist upon a certain minimum of religious toleration. If conditions fall beneath that standard—such as preceded the Inquisition or the pogroms—they tend to leave. Or they effect what they call ‘regime change.’ That is the stick with which they beat oppressors, but their much larger influence is through the carrot of their commerce. Venice is booming, much stronger for its relationship with the USE. So, although they are not in any way sacrificing their autonomy, I believe the Council of Ten have realized that if they are to sustain their current surge in relative power, they must not antagonize the USE by ignoring the laws that give us Jews additional protection there.”

Meir pouted, nodded. “Sounds promising. And you are doing well?”

“Quite well, but right now, I am not here as a merchant.”

“No? So what brings you here?”

Miro told him.

Meir heard the finish of Ezekiel’s story just as he finished the last of the wine. The olives and bread were already gone, as were half of the fish. The shadows had moved noticeably; their slant was more pronounced, their edges not so sharply demarcated. The sunlight was no longer the punishing white of morning and midday, but had become a bit more yellow. Meir dabbed the remains of wine and oil from his lips. “You are, of course, mad,” he said.

Miro smiled. “And you are unchanged.”

“I am realistic. Being of humble origins, I never had the luxury of grand schemes and flights of fancy. The life of an
orella baixa
is one of reason, you see.”

Ezekiel smiled at the reinitiation of their old taunting ritual; they had become fast friends despite—or perhaps because of—the social differences between them. Meir, who was one of the
orella baixa
—or “low ears”—of the
xueta,
should have had little access to Ezekiel, who was the eldest scion of one of the most celebrated families of the
orella alta
—or “high ears.” But Ezekiel early decided that these class differences were nonsense, and even as a boy, recognized the strong mind and strong, dogged loyalty of Meir—called “Miguel” in public—who was but a cobbler’s son. “Thanks for your reminder that I am, in fact, a spoiled brat—intellectually as well as materially. Now, are the Stones being held in Bellver?”

“Of course? Where else?”

“And have you any news of them?”

“Until a few days ago, we were not even sure they were prisoners there. The Spanish were quiet about it. Word is that some factotum of Borja’s oversaw the couple’s transfer from Rome. Not much is known about him, however.”

Ezekiel’s face took on an expression Meir had never seen before—and for the first time in their long years together, Meir was scared of Ezekiel: physically scared. A man with such a look on his face might do anything.…

“Does this factotum stay in Bellver?” asked Miro, his eyes still like a shark’s.

“No. He mostly resides in the Almudaina.”

“Not at the Black House, then?”

“Huh. This man of Borja’s seems to have little use for the Inquisition. And they for him.”

Miro’s expression became a bit less ominous, a bit more thoughtful. “Interesting. But back to the Stones: any word of their condition, or where in the Castell they are being kept?”

“No, but the husband apparently pestered the governor to provide the services of one of our doctors until he got his way, if you can believe that.”

“I readily believe he asked for one of our physicians. I find it very strange that the Spanish agreed, however.”

“Well, it wasn’t without some pressure. Apparently, an hidalgo who accompanied the couple here as a combination guard and overseer added his influence to the request.”

“And why did the Stones want a male physician? Why not a midwife?”

“It is said that the up-time ambassadora in Rome, this female doctor Sharon Nichols, warned that there might be complications with the pregnancy, particularly since the woman is carrying twins.”

Miro frowned and then, just as suddenly, he was smiling as broadly as when he had been a boy. “This Frank Stone is as shrewd as his father.”

“What? Why?”

“Because I consulted with Ambassador Nichols before coming here. Giovanna Stone is not carrying twins. She is also as sturdy a woman as God ever made. It is her first pregnancy, true, so unexpected problems are more likely—but that only gives added credibility to her need for much help, and is all the the more to our advantage.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind, Meir. I am thinking out loud. Thinking flighty, useless
orella alta
thoughts, mind you.”

“Of course. But—”

“So, they have not been provided a physician, yet?”

Meir shook his head. “No. All that has happened so far is that some inquiries were made in our community.”

“Excellent. Is Asher still practicing?”

“Him? He will be doctoring from his deathbed. And he has too wretched a temperament to ever die, so we are stuck with him.”

“He is also the best physician in the western half of the Mediterannean. Approach Asher and tell him he must accept this commission from the Spanish.”

“Yes, but they might not go to him first. They might—”

“Then approach the other
xueta
physicians, as well. They are to refuse the Spanish commission, if offered.”

“But, even if they agree, how can one refuse the Spanish? After all—”

“The others are all younger than Asher. They can refuse on the basis of modesty and that the forced intimacy with another woman is an insult to their wives, and to their duty as good Catholics. Lately come to the foot of the cross, they may protest their ardent desire to observe the highest standards of Christian propriety. The Spanish will accept that—readily.”

“Yes, the bastards probably will.”

“They are not all bastards, Meir. Believe me. Now, when the Spanish bring the commission to Asher, he is to haggle over the terms. Haggle hard. He must not look eager to take the commission. Which should not be difficult; he is old and travel to and from Bellver will genuinely tax him. And with his reputation for being cantankerous, the Spanish will not be surprised when he resists.”

“But if he resists too much, they might seek one of our other physicians—”

“Which is why you will pay them to reject the commission. The job must go to Asher, but he must resist it. If he accepts the case too quickly, the Spanish may suspect it suits some purpose of ours and become suspicious and watchful.”

Meir shook his head. “You were ever a deep one, Ezekiel.”

“I was ever careful and thorough; you were deeper, more favored by the rabbis. You could have been a Talmudic scholar readily enough.”

“I would have had to pay them to raise my ears higher, first. Speaking of the easy assumptions of snobs, just how do you propose I pay for the other physicians to refuse the commission?”

Ezekiel handed him another envelope. It was very thin.

“What is this?”

“Information that will give you access to funds held in the Rialto. You will find ample recompense there, as the accounting at the bottom shows.”

Meir managed to keep his eyebrows from rising. “This is a most considerable sum.”

“The USE is not without means. Nor is the very wealthy father of Frank Stone.”

“Evidently. But Venice is far away, and the favors—and supplies—you need must all be bought here, right now.”

“True. But I am not proposing this account as a line of credit against which you may draw. I am conferring it unto you; all of it.”

Meir looked at the very large number once again. “So, we put up money equal to, say, half of this sum, and then are entitled to withdraw all of it from the Rialto.”

“That is correct. You stand to make one hundred percent profit, but you must bear the risk of advancing the resources we need here.”

Meir looked at his old friend. “Huh. There’s some of your own money in here as well, isn’t there?”

Ezekiel shrugged. “A little. Maybe. I don’t recall.”

“Breaking the commandments, now, eh, Ezekiel? As in, ‘thou shalt not lie?’ I recognize the account number; this is the one you used to transfer profits to us when you were our counterfeit hidalgo trading from Lisbon to the Levant.”

“Which simply meant that we already had an account that could be easily repurposed to support this operation, Meir.”

“That’s not a lie, but it is still an evasion. How much of your money are you spending to help free these two Gentiles?”

Ezekiel looked hard at Meir. “First, it is none of your business. Second, you do not understand what is at stake here.”

“A man and a woman are being held captive under almost princely conditions; excuse me while I weep a bit.”

“No, Meir, you are missing the point entirely. These ‘Gentiles’ as you call them are different. I do not mean different in terms of my personal association with them; I have never met Frank and his wife, although I know the father—and he is as good a man as God ever fashioned. That alone might make me part with some of my money to aid in the reclamation of his son, but that was not what makes him—all of them—different.